


Towards the Rising Sun

by liluwrites



Category: TharnType the Series (TV), บังเอิญรัก | Love by Chance (TV)
Genre: Anger Management, Friendship, Healthy Coping Mechanisms, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Characters Are Mentioned, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Romance, Therapy, Type actually starts dealing with stuff, mentioned past rape and CSA, supportive friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24270640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liluwrites/pseuds/liluwrites
Summary: He knows he’s become less volatile. Before, his anger had been constantly simmering just below the surface, ready to rise and manifest itself into rage at the slightest provocation; but now, the tide is a little lower, the fuse a little longer, and he finds it easier to take a breath and walk away.No matter what Tharn says, he’s still not perfect - but no-one is, really. Neither of them are perfect, but they’re braving the unchartered territories of this relationship together, and that’s enough.Except, sometimes, it isn’t.
Relationships: Tharn Thara Kirigun/Type Thiwat Phawattakun
Comments: 25
Kudos: 319





	Towards the Rising Sun

_**"Our brokenness summons light into the darkest crevices in our hearts."** _

_**Shauna L Hoey** _

*****

Most days, Type is fine.

He’s been calmer since Tharn, more stable, and all his friends have noticed; Techno stops flinching every time he makes a bad joke (and Type feels like a shithead for having ever made him nervous like that), and the football team are more friendly with him, their jokes and banter becoming so much more natural that Type realises they had been walking on eggshells every time they spoke to him.

Even his parents notice the change in him.

“You sound happy, son,” his father tells him over the phone one evening. 

“Yeah,” Type replies. “It’s because of the great sex I had with Tharn last night.”

While true, it isn’t the whole reason – but it’s worth it to hear his father splutter and choke down the line.

He knows he’s become less volatile. Before, his anger had been constantly simmering just below the surface, ready to rise and manifest itself into rage at the slightest provocation; but now, the tide is a little lower, the fuse a little longer, and he finds it easier to take a breath and walk away.

No matter what Tharn says, he’s still not perfect – but no one is, really. Neither of them are perfect, but they’re braving the unchartered territories of this relationship together, and that’s enough.

Except, sometimes, it isn’t. 

Some days, everything is too much, and that’s when the anger builds, clawing at his chest and burning his skin from the inside out. 

Today, it’s a combination of everything. He has a nightmare, and it’s not the worst one he’s ever had (in this one, he is thrown into the black waves of his hometown, hands tied, and he struggles and chokes on the salty water – then a hand reaches in and grabs him, and he knows the feel of that hand all too well, he knows that leering smile – he tries to fight back, kicks out, but his grip is too strong and Type is too weak – and then, suddenly, the ocean turns to blood, fills his lungs, drowns him, as that chilling voice echoes in his head: _good boy, this isn’t going to hurt a bit…_ ) but it’s bad enough that he wakes in tears, heart pounding, and has to run to the bathroom to be sick. Tharn holds him through it, as always, but nightmares always leave a bitter aftertaste of exhaustion and fear, and he already knows it’s going to be a bad day.

Tharn makes a fuss of him in the morning, stroking his hair and asking over and over if he’s sure he’ll be okay at college, suggesting he should stay home and rest – and normally this would be comforting, but he is tired and irritable and not in the mood, so he snaps at Tharn. Hurt flashes through Tharn’s eyes, and Type feels like a complete fucking asshole.

He’s already pissed off at himself, so when Techno greets him outside class with a bright grin, followed by, “Wow, you look like shit,” he gives him the finger and tells him to fuck off. The confusion written across Techno’s face only makes him feel worse.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, knows he’s spiralling, knows this will end in an explosion, but he’s powerless to stop it. When a freshman kid bumps into him between classes, he barges her back without thinking – and he should apologise, but he’s so angry and stressed, he almost wants to do it again. God, he’s such an asshole. This day is already fucked.

It only gets worse and worse. Tiny things make him angry, so he reacts angrily, which means he hurts people, which means he’s pissed at himself, which makes him even more angry…the cycle continues, and by the time he gets home, his skin is itching with frustration and there is fire in his veins. He can barely breathe.

“Oh, hello!” Tharn calls as he kicks off his shoes in the entrance. “You’re back early. Did you have a good day?”

Type looks at him, sees the warmth and affection in his eyes, the smile full of love he doesn’t deserve. Tharn’s face is so open and innocent, a picture of blind ignorance; he has no idea how Type is feeling, he can’t feel the red-hot rage in his blood. Type wants him to realise, wants him to say something, because then he can start an argument and yell at Tharn and let the sizzling rage boil over into something he can handle.

But Tharn says nothing. He just stands there with that soft smile and those soft eyes, the sympathetic gaze seeming to say: I understand.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t fucking understand anything, the fucking bastard, the fucking idiot who chose Type for a boyfriend when he could have had literally anyone else, could’ve had someone who wasn’t such a fucking shithead asshole – 

Something snaps.

People talk about seeing red, but for Type, it’s always been black. The world disappears, and suddenly it’s just him and this overwhelming, all-consuming anger, this need to scratch off his skin and rip out his hair and scream, to claw this feeling from his chest before it burns him to ashes. He’s a child again, shaking and vulnerable, naked on the ground in the darkness with blood on his thighs and beneath his nails, kicking out in feral terror; he’s a broken teenager, furious at the way the world keeps turning, disgusted at himself for way he looks at other men – he’s Type, curled on the floor of his apartment, hands tangled in his hair, screaming into the carpet as if that will make anything better.

“Type.” A voice, low and steady. Gentle fingers guiding his hands from his hair. “Don’t hurt yourself, baby.”

Type gasps, catching his breath. Everything hurts. He’s too tired to carry on.

“That’s it.” Tharn keeps hold of his hands, strokes his thumb over the knuckles. They hurt. He must have punched something. “Can you look at me? Let me see your beautiful eyes.”

His eyes. Tharn always talks about his eyes, but Tharn’s are prettier. They’re deep and dark, and Type feels like he can lose himself in their warmth. He looks up.

“Ah, there you are.” 

It’s Tharn’s smile that breaks him. Despite everything, it’s still filled with such devotion, even though Type has been an asshole all day and has broken down in front of him and probably said all kinds of terrible things – Tharn loves him. The love in his smile is unconditional, and it’s impossible to fathom.

“Come here,” Tharn murmurs as the first sob breaks free, loud and gut-wrenching. Tharn reaches out, pulls Type into his lap on the floor and rocks him slowly, as if he were a small child. The underserved tenderness makes him cry harder. “Shhh, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The adrenaline comes crashing down, and Type slumps against Tharn’s chest, drained, as his body shakes with tears. There are so many things he needs to say – he needs to thank Tharn, apologise to him, tell him he’ll understand if he’s had enough of this – but he can’t move. Instead, he focuses on the warmth of Tharn’s arms around him, and drawing each slow breath into his lungs.

In…and out. In…and out. He can’t think of anything else right now, or his world will cave in.

“Are you done?” Tharn whispers, unmoving.

Type nods. “Mm.”

A soft sigh. Tharn pulls him closer, kisses his head. “I think we need to get you some help.”

He nods again. “Okay.”

  
*

It isn’t the first time Tharn has suggested he see a therapist. After everything that happened to Tar, he had subtly approached the subject a few times; perhaps seeing Tar struggling so intensely with his mental health had made Tharn realise just how deeply the scarring could run. Every time, Type had rejected the offer immediately – he’s not eleven years old anymore, he doesn’t need pity or protection. There’s no point in resurrecting the past.

But this – this is different. This uncontrollable anger is hurting the people he loves, and he cares about that, now. He’s a better person than he once was, and that means he needs to change.

“I didn’t…hit you or anything, did I?” Type asks that evening, wrapped in a soft blanket while Tharn dabs ointment onto his scraped knuckles. 

Tharn shakes his head. “No, you didn’t touch me. You never have.”

“Promise?”

That smile again, the loving smile he doesn’t deserve. “I promise.”

But it could happen, he knows that. At the moment, it’s only words, but those can still cut deep – and if he were to go further, to hit Tharn, to make him bleed, he knows he could never forgive himself.

 **sorry for being an asshole earlier,** he messages Techno, and the response is almost immediate.

**??? nothing to apologise for**

He hesitates, then takes a deep breath and types, **no, I was shitty, you can admit it. but I’m going to get help**

A pause, then, **oh. have fun, I guess?**

Type snorts. Techno texts exactly the way he speaks; naïve yet loveable. Not that he would ever admit it. **lol thanks, I won’t**

There’s no reply for several minutes, and Type sets down his phone on the bed, when it vibrates again with a single message: **proud of you, bro <3**

Now, as he sits in the waiting room a week later with his hand tightly clasped in Tharn’s, Type wonders what there is to be proud of. His chest is buzzing with anxiety, and he can feel a cold sweat prickling his palms. Why did he agree to this? Maybe he should run away now, isolate himself from everyone he could hurt. He can’t do this.

“One session,” Tharn had promised. “We’ll go to one session, together, and if it’s too much for you then we can think of something else.”

One session. Just half an hour, and Tharn will be right beside him the whole time.

Tharn does all the talking. Type sits silently, hands tightly folded over his chest, and stares down at the ugly patterned linoleum as Tharn tells the woman about what had happened, all the shitty stuff Type has done – but he describes Type glowingly, using words like “passionate” and “loyal” and “brave”. He’s never thought of himself as any of those things before. Tharn’s vision must be distorted by the lens of love.

“Type.” The woman turns to him. “Can you tell me how you feel about all of this?”

He looks up, sees those searching eyes and those dark lips, and suddenly he’s eleven years old, sitting in a chair so large his feet don’t touch the floor, and a fake-smiling lady with a police badge on her blouse is leaning forward and asking, “Where did he touch you, Type?”

He presses a hand to his mouth. “I feel sick.”

Tharn’s arm wraps gently around his shoulders, and he is guided out onto the balcony. He leans against the rail and gulps in the fresh air, focuses on the feeling of Tharn’s hand stroking up and down his back, matches his breathing to its steady rhythm. Tharn hands him a flimsy plastic cup of water from the cooler, and he sips it slowly.

“You okay?” Tharn asks, and Type hums and rests against him.

“I don’t want to go back,” Type says. Tharn looks at him, calculating, and nods.

“Okay,” he says. They walk home together.

  
*

  
Techno takes a sip of his beer and rests his elbows on the bar behind him. “So,” he says. “How’s your ‘help’ going?”

Type huffs. “It’s not going. I didn’t even make it through the first session.”

“Oh? Why not?”

As usual, Techno doesn’t hesitate to shove his nose into Type’s business. He’s always been like that, and Type guesses he has best friend privileges by now, but it’s still irritating. “Because it pissed me off, that’s why. I don’t want to tell a stranger about all my personal shit.”

“Really?” Techno raises his voice over the applause as a new wannabe-musician takes the stage. They’ve all been decent, Type supposes, but no-one is anywhere near as good as Tharn. “I find it easier to talk about personal stuff with people I don’t know well.”

“Maybe that’s why you never make any new friends.”

“Ha ha.” He rolls his eyes with a good-natured smile. “For real, though, if you don’t know them it takes the pressure off, because you don’t have to worry about making them sad.”

Type scoffs. “I don’t worry about making people sad.”

Techno just smiles at him knowingly. “If you say so.”

They stand side by side for a while in companionable silence, watching the young man on stage plucking his guitar and crooning about a girl who doesn’t love him back, before Techno says, “You know, you’re already way more chill. Maybe you don’t even need help.”

Type raises his eyebrows a little and takes a sip of his beer. Grateful though he is for Techno’s confidence in him, his friend has no idea of his past, and now certainly isn’t the right time to tell him (will there ever be a right time? The only person he has directly told is Tharn, and that hadn’t been planned at all). Techno has never seen him completely lose it.

“You haven’t seen me at my worst,” he says, masking the meaning with a smirk, and Techno gapes at him.

“You can get even _worse?”_

“Fuck you,” Type says, but he’s laughing – they’re both laughing – and suddenly, life doesn’t seem so bad anymore.

  
*

“Type, come here for a minute.” It’s late in the evening, and Type is getting ready to shower when Tharn calls him from the bed. Tharn is sitting cross-legged on the mattress in just his boxers and a loose grey t-shirt, his laptop open in front of him, and he looks attractive as hell.

Of course, Type goes to him.

“What?” He asks, hopping onto the bed beside him and resting his cheek on Tharn’s shoulder. The thin cotton of the shirt is soft against his skin. It might be his favourite of Tharn’s shirts; but honestly, he loves everything Tharn wears. 

“I’ve been doing some research, and there’s lots of stuff online about how to manage anger and anxiety and stuff. You want to take a look?”

Type furrows his eyebrows. “I don’t have anxiety.”

“I know, but apparently, they’re very closely linked. If you’re stressed, or…” he pauses, gives Type a significant look. “If you have trauma from your childhood, or if you have trouble sleeping, it can make your anger worse.”

He’s right, Type knows he’s right, but the thought overwhelms him. He’s always thought of himself as an aggressive asshole, unable to control his temper, not the innocent victim of fate and circumstance. He isn’t traumatised. He isn’t weak.

Fuck this.

“Shut up,” Type snaps before he can stop himself, rising sharply from the bed. “I don’t want to take a fucking look. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The irritation flares inside him, begging him to say more, to shout, to start a fight, but he reigns it in with a shaky breath. “I’m going to shower now.”

In the shower, he stands under the hot spray and hisses every curse word he can think of, and by the time the water runs cool, he is calm. When he returns to the bedroom, Tharn is already lying on his side beneath the blankets, his laptop closed on the end table. Type slips into bed beside him and slings an arm around his waist. Tharn lets out a quiet breath and turns to face him.

“I’m sorry, Type,” Tharn says softly. “I shouldn’t have been prying into things without your permission. I was so eager to help you that I didn’t think about what you would actually want.”

Type sighs, guilt gnawing at him. “I’m sorry too. I know you were just trying to help.”

“Do you want me to back off about all this? I will, if you want me to.”

“No.” He bites his lip, struggles to force the words through his embarrassment. “I…I want to let you help me. I just don’t know how.”

“That’s okay.” Tharn’s hand moves slowly, traces the curve of his cheek in the darkness. “We’ll figure this out together.”

The next morning, Type calls the only person who will completely understand.

 _“Hello?”_ Khom answers on the second ring. _“Who is this?”_

Type scoffs. “Am I still not in your fucking contacts?”

_“Oh, Type, hi! What’s up?”_

“Why am I not in your contacts? I’m your best friend.”

_“You know I don’t have a contacts list, it’s too confusing. I don’t get how this smartphone works.”_

“How – Khom, you are a teenager in the twenty-first century, how do you still not know how to use a smartphone?”

 _“Did you really call me to complain about my technological incompetence?”_ Khom’s bright laughter sounds tinny through the speaker. _“Or is something up?”_

So Type summons all his courage and tells Khom everything, about his uncontrollable blackout rages and the failed therapy appointment and his almost-argument with Tharn. It’s easier to talk about these things over the phone, when he can’t see his face, but it’s also easier because Khom is the only person aside from his parents who has seen him at his absolute worst, and has stayed with him regardless.

He owes his life to Khom, both metaphorically and literally.

“Khom,” he says, his voice quavering inexplicably. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

A long pause. Type doesn’t know why his heart is beating so quickly.

 _“No,”_ Khom says, a little hesitant. _“There’s nothing wrong with you, Type. But…I still think you might need some help.”_ Another pause, then he continues, quieter, _“Do you remember the time when we were – fourteen, I think? – and I found you sitting on the bench on the edge of the cliff, the part that overlooks the jagged rocks? And I sat down beside you, and you asked me if I thought it would hurt, to fall onto those rocks?”_

“I remember.”

_“And I wondered why you were asking, but you told me to forget it – you said you were fine, it didn’t matter, it was just a random question.”_

Type swallows painfully. “It wasn’t just a random question.”

_“I know.”_

The words echo in the distance between them. 

_“Type,”_ Khom continues, gentle. _“I think you should try again to talk to someone.”_

He shakes his head. “I don’t think I can. It’s – when I looked at her, it felt like – it reminded me of back then, when the police asked me questions, when they tried to make me talk about it – it makes me remember, and – I can’t.” He takes a deep breath, steadies himself with a palm against the wall. “When stuff like that reminds me, it’s like I’m stuck inside my own head and I can’t escape. The thoughts all lead into each other, like – like a whirlpool, or quicksand or something, it drags me down and I can’t get out, and then I get angry because that’s the only bit of strength I have left.”

Khom doesn’t speak for a long time. Type listens to his breathing down the line, a little unsteady, punctuated with sharp inhales. It sounds like he is crying, but he isn’t sure, and it doesn’t seem right to ask. 

_“Type,”_ he says finally. _“Don’t take this the wrong way, but…have you ever heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?”_

Type frowns. “PTSD? Yeah, I think so. It’s the thing that soldiers get.”

_“Not just soldiers. Anyone can get it, if they’ve been through something traumatic. Like a car accident, or a house fire – or abuse.”_

“Oh.” The implication is clear. “But…it was years ago. I was just a kid.”

_“That doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to be recent trauma, it can be from anything. Sometimes it’s from stuff that happens when people are too young to even remember it.”_

He bites his lip. “So – you think I have PTSD?”

Khom sighs. _“I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. But I’ve suspected for a long time.”_

“Seriously? Then why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

_“You would have bitten my head off, Type.”_

He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again. Khom is right. Even a few months ago, he would have flown into a rage at the mention of it. How many other people, Type wonders, have avoided saying things for fear of angering him? 

For the rest of the day, he thinks about what Khom has said. The idea that his anger could be a symptom of something larger is frightening and difficult to comprehend, but the more he thinks about it, the more reasonable it seems. Still, he tries to dissuade himself. Post-traumatic stress disorder is a long, ugly label, and even the possibility of it weighs heavily upon his shoulders.

He doesn’t want a name for his personal flaws. It’s easier to just be Type – shitty, messed-up Type – with stupid friends and a boyfriend who loves him regardless.

He doesn’t say anything about the conversation to Tharn, and Tharn doesn’t push; but they go to Tharn’s family home for dinner that Sunday, as they often do, and he somehow finds himself spilling everything to Thorn as they wash the dishes together. It isn’t intentional – there’s just something about Thorn, something so warm and safe and big-brotherly that makes it impossible to hide his worries around him.

“So,” he says, when he has finished his abbreviated recount of events. “Do you think I need to see a doctor about it or something?”

Thorn looks at him over the plate he is drying. “It doesn’t matter what I think. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” he says, a little more harshly than he intends. “I guess if there’s something wrong with me, I want to know. But I don’t want to be labelled as that ‘crazy, fucked-up kid’. I just want to be fixed.”

A quiet exhale. Thorn picks up another plate and focuses on it, not looking Type in the eyes as he says, “Having a diagnosis doesn’t make you crazy. You know, I have bipolar disorder.”

“What?” He almost drops the dish he is scrubbing.

Thorn shoots him a wry smile. “You wouldn’t guess, would you? But I had a really hard time when I was a teenager. If you ask Tharn, he’ll tell you all about it. I was completely out of control, swinging high and low like an out-of-rhythm pendulum; and honestly, I thought I was crazy. But then I got a diagnosis and medication and therapy, and now – “ He spreads his arms with a smile. “I’m doing much better.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t know how to respond to that.

Thorn places a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, Type, I’ll tell you what I wish I had known years ago. Getting a diagnosis isn’t like getting a criminal conviction or something. It isn’t that kind of label. And it isn’t like they’re burdening you with something you don’t already have – whether you’re diagnosed with a condition or not, you’ll still have the same struggles. A diagnosis just gives you a name for it.” 

“I guess.”

“You don’t have to get a diagnosis, it’s your choice. But if you want to, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, it might be the first step towards getting the help you need.”

“But…” Type glances up at him, feeling suddenly on the verge of tears, and whispers, “I’m scared, Phi.”

Thorn abandons the dishes and pulls him into a hug. It’s tight and comforting, and Type presses his face into his sweater and almost wishes he were young enough to cling to him the way Thanya does, safe from the outside world. “That’s okay, that’s normal. But you don’t need to be scared. I’m here to support you, and you have Tharn, who is, if I say so myself, one of the best people in this world – “

Type laughs shakily. He can’t disagree.

“All of us are here to help you, Type. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Thank you,” Type murmurs. He pulls away, dabbing his eyes with the back of his wrists, and Thorn tactfully pretends not to notice. They have just resumed the dishes when Tharn appears in the doorway.

“What’s taking you two so long?” He asks. “Mae and Por are waiting to start the movie.”

Thorn smiles at him. “We were just…bonding.” 

“Please tell me you weren’t telling Type my embarrassing childhood stories.”

“You have embarrassing stories?” Type asks mischievously. His voice sounds normal now, and to his relief, Tharn doesn’t notice the faint redness around his eyes.

Thorn pats Type’s shoulder. “We’ll save the stories for next time, Type. I promise I’ll tell you all of them.”

“No,” Tharn groans. “I’m never leaving you two alone again. Come on, Type, lets leave this loser to finish up the dishes by himself. He deserves it.”

“What did I do?” Thorn splutters, but still, he waves them away good-naturedly. “Go on then, kids, have fun.”

On the journey home that night, Type says, “I never knew P’Thorn had bipolar.”

Tharn glances away from the road for a second, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Oh, I suppose you didn’t. Did he tell you today?”

“Mm.” They travel a while longer in silence, punctuated only by the indicator ticking and the soft hum of the engine. Tharn is a careful driver, focused hard on the road, and while his concentrating expression is extremely hot, Type is not in the right mood to appreciate it. He takes a deep breath, calculating his words, then says, “Hey, Tharn?”

“Yes?”

“I think I want to try again. With therapy, I mean.”

“Really?” Tharn glances at him again, his face bright with hope. Just from the way the single word rises, Type can tell he’s pleased.

“Yeah. Just…not the same therapist. I want someone different.”

“Okay, sure. We can do that. Do you want to organise the appointment, or do you want me to do it?”

Type swallows his pride. “You, please.”

“No problem.” Tharn removes a hand from the steering wheel to pat Type’s knee. “I’m proud of you, Type.”

And, even though Type still doesn’t know what there is to be proud of, he laces their fingers together and holds Tharn’s hand all the way home.

  
*

Type walks out of the therapist’s office and straight into Tharn’s arms. He had gone in alone, this time – Techno was right, it’s easier to talk about the difficult things without Tharn listening – and, as Type had suspected, his therapist had arranged for him to be evaluated by a psychiatrist for post-traumatic stress disorder. 

This therapist had been far better than the last; a bland, unsmiling middle-aged man with a monotonous voice, who carried a presence so impersonal that Type had felt like he was telling his worries to a brick wall. Strangely, that had made it easier, somehow.

Even so, he is exhausted and emotionally drained, and he all but collapses into Tharn’s embrace. 

“Hello,” Tharn says, pressing a kiss to his hairline. “How was it?”

“Mm,” he mumbles into the comforting warmth of Tharn’s chest. He inhales Tharn’s familiar smell – coffee and cologne and floral detergent – and feels the tension leave his body.

“You don’t want to talk about it? That’s okay.” Tharn holds him for a moment longer, then gently pulls back and cups his face, searching for signs of distress. When he seems to find none, his shoulders relax a little and he says plaintively, “Type, I’m hungry. I’ve been waiting here for ages. Let’s go to a café.”

He agrees, even though he’s pretty certain the treat is for his benefit, not Tharn’s – and his suspicion is confirmed when Tharn coincidentally chooses Type’s favourite café. They order iced fruit tea and cakes, and sit at a table by the window overlooking the quiet street. 

For a while, they talk about nothing in particular – college and the weather and Thanya’s upcoming piano recital – and Type feels himself becoming calmer, happier. Drinking tea in the warm sunshine with his favourite person smiling across the table at him makes his heart ache, but in a good way, like it is swollen with so much love it could burst.

“So,” he says, surprising himself. “He wants to refer me for an evaluation, for PTSD.”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder?”

“Mm.”

“Oh.” Tharn looks at him for a long moment, calculating. “And – what do you think?”

Type lowers his head, suddenly very nervous. “I think maybe I already knew.”

Tharn takes his hands across the table and offers him a reassuring smile. “I think I did, too.”

The evaluation goes quickly. Type checks every box on the list (“You would make a perfect case study,” the psychiatrist tells him, and he doesn’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not) and he leaves an hour later with an official diagnosis and a bottle of pills. 

“They’re supposed to help with the nightmares,” he explains to Tharn. “I have to take one before I go to bed, and I should be able to sleep better.”

Tharn just nods, then pulls him into his arms and holds him for a long time.

That evening, he phones Khom.

_“Hello, who’s this?”_

“I have PTSD,” he blurts, before he can lose his courage.

For a moment, there is startled silence, and Type regrets his bluntness. Then, _“Oh, so you went to the doctor about it, then?”_

“Mm. There was this list of stuff, like, symptoms, and I had to tick whether I had them or not, and I didn’t even know most of them weren’t normal. I ticked all of them. The psychiatrist said I was a perfect example.”

_“Oh, Type.”_

A flare of irritation. He hates pity, hates it more than anything else on earth. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” he snaps.

_“I’m sorry. It’s just, it’s all so shitty. I hate that this happened to you, it’s so unfair.”_

“Yeah, well, the world isn’t fair.” He isn’t angry at Khom, not really. In a sense, he’s jealous. It seems like Khom has only just realised how cruel the world can be – and that isn’t true, he knows it isn’t, because Khom had suffered alongside him as a child – but still, he’s seeing once again how differently they view the world, and it hurts.

Why did he have to be the one who was raped? Why wasn’t it Khom?

The guilt crashes into him so hard he almost crumples to the floor. How could he have thought something like that? Fuck, he hates himself, he hates himself so much, what kind of fucking asshole would wish something like that upon his best friend –

_“Type? Are you still there?”_

He doesn’t deserve Khom.

“Stop acting like you fucking understand! You act all superior, like you know everything wrong with me, but you don’t, you don’t know shit about how I feel! You weren’t the one on that chair in that room, you’re not the one fucked up for life because of some stupid shit that happened years ago. You have no fucking right to feel sorry for me. You don’t understand anything – “

 _“Type,”_ Khom’s voice cuts calmly through his breathless tirade. _“I’m going to hang up now. Go cuddle with Tharn for a bit, calm down, and text me when you’re feeling better.”_

The line cuts off. 

For a moment, Type stares at the phone in his hand, breathing heavily; then, he hurls it onto the bed with a growl of frustration. The blackness is creeping in at the edge of his vision, threatening to overpower him, and he drops to the floor and wrenches his hands in his hair – then, suddenly, the rage disappears, replaced by a devastating anguish and guilt. 

He loves Khom. Khom is his best friend, his brother, the person who held him when everyone else turned their backs – and yet Type has pushed him away so bitterly for no other reason than his own self-hatred.

Slowly, he lowers his hands from his head and starts to sob.

When Tharn returns from the convenience store, he drops the plastic bags in the doorway and runs to his side. “Type, baby, what’s the matter, what happened? Are you hurt? Talk to me.”

But Type is beyond words, so he just extends his arms, childlike, and lets Tharn lift him to his feet and guide him to the bed for a cuddle.

“I yelled at Khom,” Type sniffles, when he is finally able to speak. “He was being kind to me, and I – I got mad at him, and I said some shitty things – “ He lowers his head to hide the fresh wave of tears. 

Gently, Tharn cups his face and strokes his thumbs over his damp cheeks. “Have you apologised to him?”

“Not yet. But I will.”

“He’ll understand.” Tharn kisses the tip of his nose and offers him a loving smile. “I bought ice cream at the store. I thought we could have it after dinner, but why don’t we eat some now?”

So Type curls against Tharn’s side, drained but comfortable, and eats his strawberry Häagen-Dazs with the little plastic spoon. As he eats, he messages Khom.

**I’m sorry.**

Khom replies seconds later. **I know. It’s okay.**

Tharn presses a kiss to his forehead. Type looks up at him, looks into those beautiful dark eyes alight with an unfathomable depth of love, and wonders how he ever managed to be so lucky.

“Everything alright?” Tharn asks, and he nods.

“Mm. We’re okay now.” He leans back against Tharn’s chest and lets himself relax. There are still so many things to worry about, but he won’t think about those now. “Want to watch Netflix?”

“Sure.” Tharn reaches for the television control – then pauses, places his hand over Type’s. “Hey Type? I’m proud of you.”

There it is again, that incomprehensible pride. What is there to be proud of in him? But he doesn’t question it. Instead, he just sits on the bed and breathes, safe in the arms of the person he loves, and he lets that be enough.

  
*

  
The medication doesn’t work. 

Type begins to feel sleepy around an hour after he takes the first pill, halfway through an episode on Netflix. He yawns, snuggling against Tharn’s shoulder, a little fuzzy from the drug-induced haze, and Tharn coos at him as he helps him stumble to the bathroom to clean his teeth, then collapse into bed. He falls asleep almost immediately, nestled in Tharn’s embrace.

The nightmare that night is a new one, and it’s one of the worst yet. It starts the same as usual; he and Khom are playing football in the yard, and the ball rolls out of sight. But then it changes. Instead of Type running after the ball, Khom goes, and he doesn’t return – then Type hears screaming, and he runs to the warehouse, and when he flings open the door it isn’t himself tied to the chair but Khom, screaming and screaming. Usually, the nightmares end when the screaming starts, because Tharn will hear and shake him awake – but this time it continues, and Type looks around at the all-too-familiar room, at the ropes on his friend’s wrists and the bruises on his neck and the drying blood on his thighs – then he looks up and sees Khom’s face, and Khom is no longer a child but a young man, the age he is now, and he gazes at Type with eyes full of betrayal and says, “Why did you do this to me, Type?”

And then, finally, Tharn shakes him awake and pulls him into his arms.

“Shh, Type, baby, it was just a dream, it wasn’t real, you’re okay baby, you’re okay,” he says over and over as Type heaves for air, rubbing his hands briskly up and down Type’s back. Oddly, he seems a little frantic; usually, Tharn is calm and steady after his nightmares. “Shh, baby, it’s alright. I couldn’t wake you, I’ve been touching you and calling out your name for ages, but you wouldn’t wake up. You scared me, baby.”

Type can’t reply, still shaking and unable to draw breath – then, to his horror and utter mortification, he shoves Tharn away and vomits all down himself.

“I’m s-sorry,” he sobs, disgusted, but Tharn stays perfectly calm, reassuring him as he guides him to the bathroom and helps him out of his soiled clothes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Tharn asks him eventually, when he has showered and is sitting on the closed toilet lid in a clean shirt and boxers, a towel draped around his shoulders, sipping at a glass of water. 

Type swallows down the taste of bile and shakes his head. “Why,” he croaks, then takes a sip of water and tries again. “Why couldn’t I wake up?”

“I don’t know.” Tharn, crouched on the floor in front of him, gently strokes a hand over his exposed knee. “I tried everything, but it was like you were so deeply asleep…” 

Type remembers the bottle of medication, the all-consuming exhaustion he had felt. “The pills,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to take them anymore.”

Tharn bites his lip, contemplative, then gently places a hand on the back of Type’s neck and tilts his head forward so he can press a kiss to his forehead. “That’s okay,” he says. “It’s your choice, baby.”

So they shove the bottle to the back of the medicine shelf as if it had never existed, then crawl back into bed together and lay awake until morning.

  
*

  
After Khom, Type intends to tell the rest of his friends about his diagnosis, but he can’t find the right time. He sends a message to Thorn, who responds quickly, reminding him he is always there for him, and telling him, like so many others have, that he is proud of him.

Life carries on. Type goes to therapy, learns ways to manage his anger and calm the storm before it reaches breaking point; and sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t, but it always gives him something to fall back on. He tells Tharn the things his therapist has suggested, and Tharn helps him with them, reminds him of them when he is too angry to think clearly.

He tries his best, and perhaps that is something to be proud of.

During one session, his therapist says, “I want you to think of something that makes you happy.”

 _Tharn,_ his brain immediately supplies, but he pushes the thought away. “Uh…football?”

“How about something simpler, something more calming? Think back to your childhood, to the most basic pleasure.”

So Type rewinds his memory, forces himself back through the hardest parts, and an image comes to mind; himself and Khom, maybe six years old, running into the lukewarm ocean. “I grew up by the coast,” he says. “And I liked swimming in the sea.”

“Hmm.” So his therapist talks him through a method; when he feels the anger rising, he should imagine himself at the beach of his hometown, walking into the gentle waves, feel the sand between his toes and the ocean around him, and let it calm him.

Type scoffs at the idea at first – but when, two days later, some playful bickering with Tharn becomes heated, he closes his eyes and imagines the sea breeze and the cool water around his waist, and he imagines the roaring in his ears is the sound of the waves lapping against the rocks; and suddenly, he feels he can breathe again.

It isn’t a magical cure, and it’s only the tip of the iceberg, but for the first time, he feels like he has some control over his anger.

One afternoon, he and Techno are carrying the football equipment back to the storeroom after practice. Type has always hated the sports storeroom; it’s small and dark and dusty, strung with cobwebs, and it always fills him with a vague sense of unease. He’s already on edge – so, when Techno accidentally drops a pile of cones and sends them scattering across the concrete, he explodes.

“For fuck’s sake, No! What’s wrong with you?”

“Sorry,” Techno says, scrabbling to pick up the cones; then he pauses, glances up at Type as if waiting for more.

Type opens his his mouth, then shuts it again. He looks down at Techno, crouched on the floor, eyes narrowed in anxious anticipation, and he feels like absolute shit. He isn’t mad at Techno, not really. He’s just stressed, and taking out his frustration the only way he knows how.

With a slow exhale, he closes his eyes, imagines the sand and the sea and the lullaby of waves against the shore; then, he bends down and starts to gather up the cones.

Techno stares at him. “Aren’t you going to yell at me?”

He shakes his head with a small, rueful smile. “I did that already. Sorry.”

“Did you just apologise?” Techno’s jaw drops. “Who are you and what have you done with Type?”

“Shut up.” Type hits his shoulder lightly. “I’m just being a decent human being.”

“You’ve always been a decent human being. You’ve just been an asshole about it.” Techno gathers the last of the cones and they stand, resuming their walk to the storeroom. “Seriously, though,” he continues contemplatively. “You have changed. It’s weird, but it’s not bad. It’s like, I dunno, you’re not so unpredictable anymore. I think I like you better like this.”

Type can’t help but feel a small swell of pride as he starts to stack the equipment on the shelves. Tharn praises him like this all the time, and Type trusts him, but somehow, it’s more meaningful to hear it from his brutally honest best friend.

“It’s because I started therapy again,” he says.

“Oh? I thought you quit that?”

“That’s why I said ‘again’, idiot.” Type swipes at him playfully with an agility pole, and Techno squeals and ducks away. “Use your fucking brain.”

“Bold of you to assume I have a brain,” he giggles. Type rolls his eyes and tosses him the pole to pack away. “Is it helping, then? All the therapy stuff.”

“Yeah,” Type says. “I think it is.”

“Good.” Techno shoots him a warm smile. “Do they actually know what’s wrong with you now? Aside from being an angry bitch, that is.”

Type raises a fist at him, but Techno just grins and doesn’t even flinch. With a sigh, he turns back to the shelves and says, as nonchalantly as he can manage, “They said I’ve got post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder…?” Techno frowns thoughtfully for a moment. “Doesn’t that mean something – shit, no, I’m not going to ask that, I’m not that tactless.”

“I’ll tell you,” Type says, surprising himself. “Just not here.”

So they go into the empty locker room and sit on opposite benches, and Type tells him everything that happened when he was eleven years old. As he speaks, he distances himself from the words until they sound like meaningless syllables, buries himself in the numb part of his brain so he doesn’t have to relive it. It isn’t as hard as he had thought it would be. It feels a little like his high school English oral exams; speaking from rote, memory, with no comprehension of what he is saying. Despite everything, the comparison makes him smile a little.

Techno isn’t smiling. When he finishes and looks up, Techno is sobbing, his face crumpled, tears flooding his flushed cheeks. Type blinks at him, alarmed.

“It’s okay,” he says, bewildered by the intensity of the reaction. “It was ages ago, it’s no big deal.”

“No big deal?” Techno yelps, crying harder. “How can you say that?”

Awkwardly, Type reaches for him, then stops, uncertain. He’s never seen Techno upset like this before, and he has no idea how to comfort him. “Um, don’t cry.”

Techno stares at him for a moment, sniffling, then whimpers and launches himself at Type. Type hesitantly encircles him in his arms and gives him a tentative pat on the back.

“No, seriously, it’s fine. It was years ago, back when I was a kid.”

“You were just a kid!” Techno howls. In the end, Type gives up on trying to comfort him, just tightens his hold a little and waits for him to calm down. Finally, Techno takes a quivering breath and pulls away, scrubbing his eyes with the back of his arm. “Please tell me they caught the bastard who did it.”

Type nods. “Yeah. I – I wasn’t the first kid he’d targeted. It turns out he had tons of child porn on his computer as well. He’s gone to prison for a long time.”

“Fucking hell.” He rubs his palms over his face. “That’s so fucked up.”

“Yeah,” he says, beginning to feel a little shaky. “When they locked him away, he had two young daughters.”

“Oh god, had he…?”

“I don’t know.”

They sit in silence for a while, the sound of their breathing magnified in the empty space. Techno pulls a tissue from the box by the lockers and wipes his face, and Type stares down at the grey tile floor, not quite sure how to feel. Eventually, he looks up at Techno and says, “Hey, No. Don’t treat me any differently now you know about this, okay? I’m still the same person you’ve known for four years. I probably should’ve told you about this sooner, really. Sorry.”

For once, it’s Techno who hits him. “Oh my god, shut up. You don’t need to apologise. That was super deep and personal and you’re not obliged to share shit like that with anyone unless you want to. Thank you for telling me, I’m honoured you chose to let me know that stuff.”

Type just shrugs and offers him a small smile. “Well, you are my best friend.”

Techno lets out a squeak – and, for the second time that day, Type finds himself tackled in a fierce embrace.

  
*

  
Telling Techno had gone well, but the hardest conversation is still to come: his parents.

His diagnosis is serious, he knows that, and it’s not something that should be revealed over the phone; but since his hometown is seven hours away by plane, a face-to-face conversation isn’t an option. Honestly, Type is relieved. He knows his mother is going to cry, and he doesn’t think he could bear to see that.

Tharn squeezes his shoulder as his finger hovers over the call button. They had agreed that Tharn would go for takeout while Type made the call, to give him some privacy, but would be back soon in case it went badly. Type is grateful for his thoughtfulness.

“Good luck,” Tharn whispers as he leaves the apartment, and Type gives him a weak smile, resisting the urge to beg him to stay. This is something that needs to be done, and he needs to do it by himself. 

The phone rings for a long time, and Type is afraid his mother won’t answer. Then a muffled click, and, _“Hello, Type, what a lovely surprise!”_

“Hi, Mae.”

 _“Your father is here too.”_ The phone rustles a little as it is passed, then his father’s deeper voice says, _“Hello, son.”_

“Hi, guys.” Despite the situation, he finds himself smiling a little. Even though they have many flaws, he loves his parents a lot.

 _“How are you, honey?”_ His mother asks. _“And how’s your handsome boyfriend?”_

“I’m good. Tharn is good, too.” His father makes a disgruntled noise. Type takes a deep breath. “Listen, guys, I have something to tell you.”

It goes about as well as he expects. His mother cries and tells him she loves him, and his father – who is, like him, a master of avoiding emotionally loaded conversations – goes quiet and just hums quietly to show he has heard. 

_“My poor baby,”_ his mother says tearfully. _“You know we’ll always be here for you.”_

“I know.” Type blinks, eyes stinging. “Thanks, Mae.”

 _“What I want to know,”_ his father says. _“Is how on Earth you ended up going back to therapy. You hated it as a child.”_

He smiles. “Tharn helped. He persuaded me to go. Tharn helps me through everything, really.”

It’s clearly not the answer his father wanted to hear, judging from the dissatisfied huff. But then there is a pause, and his father sighs heavily. _“Listen, Type, I’m never going to approve, but…it seems like that boy is good for you. Don’t let him go.”_

When Type eventually hangs up the phone, he can’t stop the huge smile that spreads across his face. Tharn, who is unpacking takeout boxes onto the table, looks up at him and mirrors his expression.

“I guess it went well, then?”

“Mm-hm!” He confirms, grabbing a couple of plates and cutlery and setting them on the table. “You want to hear what my dad said about you?”

Tharn narrows his eyes warily. “I’m not sure I do.”

“You do,” Type insists. He repeats his father’s words, and Tharn’s eyes widen dramatically.

“No way,” he says. “I don’t believe you. Your father would never compliment me like that.”

“He did, I swear.”

“No way,” Tharn repeats, shaking his head in amazement, and he spends the entire meal with a small, pleased smile on his face. After dinner, he sends a message to the group chat: **type’s dad doesn’t hate me anymore!!!** It’s stretching the truth a little, but Type lets him have his moment.

A few minutes later, Tar replies, **Congratulations!**

Type peers over Tharn’s shoulder and smiles at the message. Despite their rough beginning, he now feels an almost paternal affection for Tar; he feels responsible for him, in a sense, cares for him like a younger brother and helps him navigate the stormy seas of trauma recovery. Perhaps he isn’t a perfect role model, but he does his best.

Tharn glances back at him. “Does Tar know you have PTSD?”

Type shakes his head. “No, but he knows what happened to me when I was younger, and he knows I’ve started therapy again. He’s a smart kid, he’s probably put the pieces together by now. To be honest, it seems like everyone suspected before I did.”

“Well,” Tharn says, resting his head back against Type’s chest. “It isn’t easy to see the full picture from inside your own head. Sometimes you need to rely on the people around you to help you understand yourself.”

“Wow, thanks, professor,” Type snorts.

Tharn jabs him lightly in the ribs. “Shut up, I was trying to sound smart.”

“You, smart? In what universe?” Tharn responds by launching a tickle attack on him, and he shrieks, falling back onto the bed. “Do you think I should tell Tar, then?” He asks once he has caught his breath.

“It’s up to you, baby. But if I were him, I think I would want to know.”

“Hm. I would’ve told him sooner, but he’s been doing so well recently, I didn’t want to bring up anything that could cause a setback. I think I will tell him, though. Just not right now.”

“That’s okay.” Tharn sprawls onto the bed beside him and smiles fondly. “He has been doing well, hasn’t he? Did you see the picture he posted on Instagram of the snowman he built?”

“Yeah.” Type grins at the memory of the picture; Tar’s pink-nosed, smiling face peeking out from beneath a scarf and knitted hat, his arm wrapped around a rather hideous snow sculpture. “He looked so happy.”

“I’m glad to see him smiling again.”

“So am I.” Absently, Type fiddles with the hem of Tharn’s shirt and says, “I’ve never seen snow before.”

“I have.”

“Really?” Type cranes his head to look at him.

“Hm. I went skiing in Austria when I was younger, and there was snow everywhere.”

“What was it like?”

“Cold,” Tharn says, laughing. “And wet, and slippery. I kept falling on my butt.”

Type snorts. “I would’ve paid to see that.”

“I think we might have some old photos of that trip, somewhere. Maybe I’ll ask P’Thorn to dig out the album next time we go home.”

“Hm.” He leans closer to Tharn, rests his head on his warm chest and closes his eyes. A deep sense of peace flows through him, a feeling that, somehow, everything is finally falling into place. He isn’t perfect – he’s still bitter and scarred and full of flaws – but no-one is, and his friends and family and Tharn love him all the same. Perhaps he doesn’t need to be perfect to be enough.

“I’d like to take you on holiday sometime,” Tharn says softly, stroking a hand through his hair. 

“Mm. Maybe we could go to Paris and visit Tar.”

“Or maybe I would like to have you all to myself.” Tharn smiles deviously at him. “Perhaps a Japanese onsen? It would be nice to relax with you in the steamy hot springs…”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to fuck in the onsens,” Type says, and Tharn chokes on his own spit.

“Get your mind out the gutter! I was talking about a nice, calming spa holiday, not sex.”

“You were thinking of it, though.”

“No comment.”

Type laughs and shifts on the bed, feeling the warm breeze of Tharn’s breath ruffling his hair. It feels good, to think about the future with hope, rather than anxiety and dread. Graduation is drawing closer, but Type isn’t afraid, not when he has so many people who love him to hold him steady. 

He lets his eyelids flutter closed again, lulled into drowsiness by the gentle rise and fall of Tharn’s chest and the fingers stroking through his hair. 

“Tharn?” He murmurs, on the cusp of sleep.

“Mm?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be completely fixed.”

“No,” Tharn agrees. “Because there’s nothing to fix. You were never broken.”

“But I’m not the same person I used to be.”

“People change. You don’t need to be the same. You just need to be happy with who you are.”

And, Type thinks as his breath begins to slow, he is happy. He still loses his temper, he’s still shadowed by the ache of his past; but there can be no shadows without light, and finally, Type feels like he can see the light.

Type doesn’t have a nightmare that night. Instead, he dreams: he is back in his hometown, on the beach, and he’s playing with Khom in the sand. Techno is there too, somehow, and Champ and Ae and all his friends, Tar and Thorn and Tharn. They’re having a competition, skipping stones across the ocean the way he and Khom had done as children – but, for some reason, Type’s stones keep sinking, and he can’t get them to skip.

He’s growing frustrated, but his friends are cheering for him, “Try again, try again.”

So he hurls stone after stone, harder and harder, splashing into the ocean, and he wants to give up because everyone else can do it but he just can’t – then, Khom takes his hand and says, “Type, just relax. We’re all here.”

Type looks around, and they’re all standing beside him, urging him on. So he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and feels the sand between his toes and the water around his ankles, listens to the waves whispering against the shore, feels the smooth stone against his palm, and lets go. It bounces once, twice, three times, then disappears into the sunlit ocean.

When he turns back, his friends are smiling. 

“We’re proud of you, Type,” Khom says.

“Why are you proud of me?” Type asks, bewildered. “What have I done?”

Techno steps forward, flings an arm around his shoulders. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s because we love you, idiot.”

Slowly, the dream fades, and he opens his eyes to his and Tharn’s bedroom, soft in the early morning calm. Beside him, Tharn is still asleep, and he rolls onto his side and watches him; the steady rise and fall of his chest, the delicate petal eyelids, the contrast of every one of his long, dark lashes against his cheeks. His chest swells with love for him, overwhelming and stronger than anything he has ever felt before, stronger than any fear or pain or sadness. He wants to spend every morning like this, to wake up to the sight of the man he loves – and he can, he will.

The thought fills him with a joy so immense he can’t help but smile. 

With one final look at his lover’s sleeping face, Type slips out of bed, pads to the window, and draws open the curtains to let in the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Type is such a complex character, and one who is very close to my heart, so this story means a lot to me. I hope you enjoyed it, and please leave a comment to let me know what you thought! I appreciate each and every one of them.
> 
> Stay safe and stay positive <3


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